


Breaker

by Rhanon_Brodie (Glass_Jacket)



Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF
Genre: Introspective Narrative, M/M, Mattlex - Freeform, Prompt Fulfillment, fan art inspired, i'm channelling my inner alex, mixed metaphors, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For K, who reminded me this has always been there, it just needed the right time.</p>
<p>Everybody else is gonna do Milex for TLSP2.  News that Matt sang the backing vocals on this track (and probably others) came at an opportune time.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Breaker

**Author's Note:**

> For K, who reminded me this has always been there, it just needed the right time.
> 
> Everybody else is gonna do Milex for TLSP2. News that Matt sang the backing vocals on this track (and probably others) came at an opportune time.

Summer winds in LA are perpetual, and the dry heat that blasts through the city brings a sense of nostalgia that rings in my ears. We were LA, the four of us California Kings, up in them crazy hills for lazy days, riding, drinking, watching the sun set on endless waves and rise upon new endeavors. It’s a whirlwind now, looking back upon it, dusty and sunburned, but still shining with a regality that is intoxicating. I knew I wasn’t going back to dirty little Sheffield, my quaint hovel. I wasn’t going because I didn’t need to - this is what I needed, to be separate, and different, to be uninvolved in things I had been surrounded by for a decade. LA was now my hideaway, coastal air, saltwater reflection under neon skies.

The familial, it seems, is destined to seek me out in any corner I hide in. When Miles and I hit our stride in the spring, and we had something solid, and worthwhile, I knew that somehow, on top of the others that would appear alongside us on this new record, I needed Matt there at my side. I may take my cues from Miles, but Matt has never steered me wrong. I’ll admit that I felt a mite awkward calling him with only months left before his baby arrived - but something else had been conceived, something I needed him to help me with, and I could only hope that this, too, would be worth the sweat and the tears.

I asked him, “So what’s it like? Knowing you’re going to be a dad?”

“Indescribable,” he’d replied.

I knew the sentiment. Perhaps not the application in this context, but I knew it. Matt has always forever had this sense of visible wonder about him, and good humor, charm, charisma; he is afraid of nothing.

We talked a bit more about simple things, his lack of sleep because of a baby on the way, and mine because of my own, my little creation sitting in amongst the stack of notebooks and scribbles that woke me at night and left me perplexed and perpetually cranky.

“Play summat for me,” he’d suggested.

“Oh, I’m not...nuffin’s really...it’s not ready-”

“Alex,” Matt interrupted with a fond laugh. “Joost play.”

“Ah...all right.” 

I could have played him any other song, but I chose the one I did because it needed something. I strummed lazily, humming where I didn’t want to reveal lyrics, jagged pauses where I hadn’t quite worked the transition out, and when I was finished, he asked me to play it again. That’s when I heard it - that sweet and fine falsetto, the one that had enveloped my lyrics on AM, and transformed the regular into something pure, and almost unattainable. Though he formed no real words I fought the urge to pause and crow my jubilance at the sheen of Matt’s voice, and instead played him out.

It was silent for a moment, and I think that perhaps we were both basking in that feeling of having created something together after such a long time. In a rare moment of hastiness I blurted out, “Come to LA.”

And Matt agreed without hesitation.

+

There is a moment in The Pikey when, despite the sounds of laughter and music, Matt’s voice carries across the ocean of pints and asks, “Do you have the lyrics?”

And, of course I have them, squared away on paper, folded against my heart. There’s no sense in lying to Matt; I never have, and he’d be able to squirrel me out if I did. Instead I raise my pint and take a swig, and shrug, before smiling demurely.

“Are you gonna show me, or do I get to make them up then?”

I laugh with him. Tomorrow, we’re in the studio, the first session since he’s arrived three days past, and rather than surprise him then, with other eyes watching, I take this time granted between us and slip my fingers into the pocket inside of my denim jacket, fingering the well-loved edges of the page ripped from one of my many notebooks. We’ve been here before, passing notes like teenagers, but the words holding so much more potential. I’ve always written, and Matt, for his part, has always read. There is still a tremor in my hand as I give up my sentiment to him, watching, tongue between teeth as he unfolds my universe and turns those dark denim eyes towards the future.

When Matt is particularly moved by something that pleases him, the left side of his mouth purses and curls into a little sneer that is neither harsh nor malignant, but rather delighted, and affectionate. It warms me every time, and so now it is more than welcome. Blunt-tipped fingers come to rest on his chin, scouring over the day’s whiskers, and then, as if it is the sign I am looking for, that one single dimple appears, and he looks up with an eyebrow raised.

“Fookin’ did it again, dint you?”

I sniff and shrug, and try not to look affected by the awe in Matt’s voice.

“Every time,” he sighs, raising his glass.

He is proud of me, as only a close friend can be, and I know of no greater warmth. We drink, and we think ourselves local gods, or the cardinals of our religion at least, and we take our communion outside to that desert air that has dulled with a tepid caress of the night.

Overcome with ale, and the reminiscent tone of the evening, I suddenly find myself in Matt’s arms, an embrace of safety, and reassurance. “Fookin’ missed you, Matthew,” I mutter into his jacket.

The tips of his fingers have found the spot at the base of my skull where he twines my hair and soothes me. “Missed you, too,” he softly replies. His hand moves, palm cupping the back of my skull, and he holds me at arm’s length, his other hand curling around my bicep.

There is a howling in my heart, or perhaps that is merely ghosts haunting the space between us. For a while, we do nothing more than stare, and bask, silent in our vigil, and our memories. So much has always gone unsaid between us, perhaps because we both think we will have the opportunity later.

Our time, at least right then, has been squandered, for we are joined soon enough by Miles, who has shown up late, but no-less juiced on nicotine and brandy. Matt smiles at the skinny bastard, and while I am forever grateful of Miles’ station in my life, at the time he is abrasive, and he rubs raw the wound that had closed over and stung so saccharine. The servitude of complexity is almost a buzz kill, and so we decide to re-enter the Pikey and kid ourselves like we always have. It is comforting in a way, but there is the underlying fever, rose-gold and numbing, and it is there in the way Matt’s hand hovers over the small of my back as he guides me back inside, his proximity a balm, and a bomb, ticking away with every heartbeat.

It is all I can do to not melt into his everything, and await detonation

+

‘Apocalyptic lipstick campaign’ proves to be the most acrobatic turn of the day, and I find myself slowing it down and banging it out on the piano with a fond grin as Matt sits next to me and sings along. Miles hovers nearby, his guitar in his lap, and strums placidly enough, but I can’t help but notice the weight of his stare on the back of my neck.

There’s a rattle against the strings, the the hollow sound of knuckles rapping the body of a guitar. Glancing back I watch Miles rise from his seat, and give his pockets a pat.

“Goin’ for a smoke,” he declares, locating said cigarettes and a lighter. “Maybe go over it one more time, for good measure. Work the bugs out, yeah?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and then he’s gone, leaving Matt and I in the space.

“Give it to me again,” Matt asks, his crooked smile angling my heart.

I settle my fingers on the keyboard and close my eyes. Tiger eyelashes, summer wine, all the way to that ancient impulse. That’s when my eyes open, my fingers slow on the piano keys, and my gaze falters. I wince as my voice cracks on the next note, and I limp through it with a breathy flair, hoping that the shaking sensation in my heart doesn’t translate beyond that. 

We cover the hook well enough, stringing together ‘dirtbag ballet by the bins in the alley’; ‘the Chalet of the shadow of death’ makes Matt grin, and nod as he sings with me. But the title in the chorus, that’s not mine, they’re words that I’ve said, but I lied them - nothing about this moment is anything I’ve expected, and I sort of meander through until I get to the coastal air. Matt follows along without hesitation, and there’s a split second before we’re both singing about not being able to get an image out of our heads. My voice catches, and his snags, and then suddenly, very climactically, we are looking at one another and everything hangs between us, dangling by a fine thread tugged loose from the gossamer weave of my imagination.

Later, I’ll reflect upon it and decide that perhaps I anticipated too much. The sustained notes on the piano dampen further, until they’re but echoes around us, and all is still and quiet. This is my golden move, and I make the best of it. I’ve never hesitated with Matt, not about anything. I find myself leaning in, and I see him watching me, his gaze falling to my mouth. The softness of his bottom lip is enticing beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. I’ve never kissed Matt, but I’ve thought about it endlessly.

“Alex,” he murmurs, pulling back half an inch and staring down at me through heavy-lidded eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing on shadowplay,” I reply, biting back an indulgent grin. “I-” I shake my head and my eyes sting. “It’s nowt-”

An’ then it’s everything. 

It’s a brush of lips that first time; a tender tug of moist, plump flesh dragging against my deepest heart, but there is potential there, desire thick, and copious. I hear Matt’s shaky inhale, and feel that familiar touch at the back of my head, before his hand is cupping my cheek, fingers tightening in the length of my hair. A shuddering sigh skates over my mouth; the twin groans we heave float up and into the space between us.

I move for a second taste, and Matt stops me, the growl of his voice climbing up my spine. “Wait,” he says. “Just...wait.” He flashes a softened smile and then reluctantly drops his hand from my hair, and shifts an inch to the right on the bench we share.

A second later Miles bursts in, chattering away about something, asking if we’ve made any progress.

“We’re...ah…” My fingers flutter over the keys, and Matt picks up my tune:

“We’re heading in the right direction.”


End file.
